


Sad Etsy Boyfriend

by Paperclip



Series: Knitting for Werewolves [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Awkward Derek, Humor, Knitting, M/M, Oblivious Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-03 10:06:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paperclip/pseuds/Paperclip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles forces Derek to be a model for all of his handmade Etsy wares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ScarlettWoman710](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarlettWoman710/gifts).



> Gift fic for formerly entertainme720, currently [feelavalanche](http://feelavalanche.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr based on her brilliant [Sad Etsy Boyfriend idea](http://feelavalanche.tumblr.com/post/40453894659/so-i-saw-the-guy-in-the-first-picture-on).

Friendship was about give and take. Teaching this to Derek Hale was one of the many burdens Stiles Stilinski had taken upon himself. Plus, it was the guy's fault for sporadically showing up in his bedroom without permission. In the end, it worked out to the Alpha being in the wrong location at the wrong time.

Stiles had just finished a scarf. (Knitting was _hard_ , man. Mostly because he kept accidentally stabbing himself with the needles and _ohshitow_ , but it kept his hands busy.) The final product was lumpy and orange and homemade, which meant the Internet would love it. He'd been in the midst of artfully draping it over his chair when he heard a stifled snort coming from his bedroom window. And there, perched on his windowsill in those damned jeans that should have made that position absurdly uncomfortable was Derek. _Judging him._ And his awesome scarf. The humanity. God, everyone had been telling him to get a new hobby. Excuse him for complying.

Huffing indignantly, he'd almost gone back to preparing the scarf for its snapshot when an awful, brilliant idea hit him. What was better than a scarf that came liberally sprinkled with the blood of a virgin? Why, a scruffy grown man adorned in said scarf. Companies used models for a reason. Insanely attractive individuals with bodies only Photoshop could achieve. Except he had access to someone who wouldn't even need any touching up. Stiles grinned.

"Whatever it is you're thinking, no."

It sort of spiraled downward from there.

\----

"A penis-shaped brooch made of vibrantly patterned fabric?"

"The people have spoken, Derek. And they want phallic imagery they can lovingly pin on their cardigans. Who am I to deny potential customers? _Who am I to crush their dreams?_ " Stiles patted the other consolingly on the shoulder before he readjusted the horrific pin. It had to be angled just so to put the balls in the right light. The left one was sewn a little crookedly, which he'd obviously fix before sending, but God, he wanted to take the photo _now_ and get the listing up already.

Taking three quick steps back, Stiles cast an admiring look over the final product. Perfection. And maybe the pectoral it was affixed to helped a little. The pained grimace Derek bestowed upon him was almost enough to trigger his latent conscience...but not quite. "Hey, cheer up. I'm bound to make it onto Regretsy at this rate. You know that's one of my life goals. Take one for the team, buddy." His reassurances weren't precisely effective. But hey, Derek was totally still standing there even if he was scowling like woah.

Oh well, the denizens of the online shopping community entirely approved of Derek's sullen mug. Those cheekbones, man. That jawline? Sheesh, he couldn't even blame them. Stiles was beginning to suspect people purchased stuff from him as part of a cunning scheme to encourage him to take more photos of his mysterious sidekick with The Eyebrows. If he uploaded an item that didn't feature Derek, it literally wasted away in his shop, doomed to enter the graveyard of unwanted listings. The feedback his customers wrote didn't even make sense. They were all positive, which was great, but, uh...

_A++++ The moment I donned this sweater with mismatched sleeves, I found that I'd developed a 6-pack. Dream come true! Not sure if the yellow blob by the shoulder is a lemon but who cares?_

_Fast shipping! Item just as described! Mmmm. Smells like pure, undiluted virility. Would buy from again!_

_Wow. I never knew how much I needed a plaid beanie in my life until I bought this. When I wear it, it's like being caressed by the bristles of a five o'clock shadow._

Snatching up the camera from his bed, he aimed it at his reluctant model. Derek glowered at him with all the hatred a man wearing a penis brooch could muster. It was hilarious. The best part was how he could cherish the photographic evidence of this moment in the years to come.

"Now hold still. Remember, the camera loves you as long as you don't do the eye thing. Please don't do that. It's a bitch to crop out half your face. The customers get antsy." Tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth, Stiles carefully positioned the frame so that Derek was centered. "Also, I am not afraid to get out the sunglasses. Do you want to be a douche who wears sunglasses indoors? I think not." He'd found rambling set the werewolf at ease.

The demand for cock-shaped jewelry shot through the roof. Holy shit, he legitimately ran a virtual store where the top-selling item was a dick. Perhaps he would avoid mentioning this little extracurricular activity on his college applications.

\----

"Oh my God," Stiles mumbled, bumping his nose against the computer screen. Refreshing did nothing to change the contents of the page. Crap. He wiped at the smudge his nose had left behind with his sleeve. Clearer now...but still the same.

"What now?" The question was accompanied by what sounded suspiciously like a long-suffering sigh.

Stiles went rigid in his seat, shoulders hunching up around his ears before he glanced back over his shoulder at the man sprawled on his bed in an explosion of crafts gone wrong and cheapo vintage finds. "Um. Soooo. The Internet has been jumping to dramatic conclusions." That had come out rather ominous. He waved a hand in the air, attempting for casual and winding up more spastic. "And they think you're my Sad Etsy Boyfriend." Oh God, Derek's eyebrows were doing That Thing. Not good. "Which you aren't. Obviously." There was literally not enough back-pedaling in the world to rectify this situation.

Someone clearly wanted an explanation. How the hell did a person freaking loom while in a horizontal position? Stiles swallowed audibly. One of these days, he'd learn to keep his big mouth shut. Today was not that historic occasion though.

In his defense, he hadn't intended for this to happen. The goal had been so simple. Sell stupid shit online. Bask in the glow of people wanting his lame stuff. Earn a little spare cash. ...Although, things did make a lot more sense now. "Okay. See. I guess, um, they assumed that for you to be willing to allow me to use you to hawk my wares, then you must be getting something out of the deal." Nope. Derek wasn't getting it. There was no clicking action taking place. Just more glaring. So much glaring.

"You let me immortalize you on the World Wide Web in merchandise that would make a Home Ec teacher shed countless tears." And now, Derek was no longer blinking. Stiles felt his eyes drying up as he tried to keep pace.

Did he really need to spell this out for him? Toss a guy a bone here. "Sex. Tons of sex. All of the sex. From me. To reward you." On the one hand, wow, flattering. People seriously thought that he was getting a piece of _that_. On the other hand, he was going to die. Because of Etsy. Could they include that in his obituary? Most pathetic cause of death ever. "But I will totally get this mess cleared up. Swear. Because you are a soul of righteous dignity. Quality moral character. One who neither murders his friends nor expects sexual services in return for posing like a sultry dweeb in a deerstalker."

Derek's face had contorted into an expression that was indicative of bottled up rage or indigestion. Wait. Was he blushing? No. Yes? Stiles squinted and leaned forward in his seat incredulously. It couldn't be.

"Why _do_ you let me take dumb pictures of you?" The question had hardly left his mouth before Derek launched himself off of the mattress in a single, fluid motion. Several items tumbled off in his wake, including a snazzy pair of blue mittens and fuzzy earmuffs.

"Leaving. Pack thing." And with that, the werewolf was gone. Exited stage left...straight through the window.

Stiles blinked. Very faintly, he could hear the telltale rumble of the Camaro speeding away. _Well, then._ He spun his chair around to face his computer, which he simply stared at for a full minute as he gnawed away at his thumbnail. So maybe he owed the Internet an apology.


	2. Chapter 2

As it turned out, the Internet reacted poorly to the sudden disappearance of his nifty werewolf prop.

They wanted the Grouchiest Sad Etsy Boyfriend back. Immediately. Preferably in a hat with earflaps and a matching scarf. If a scarf was unavailable, then they might be appeased by a bow tie as long as it was color-coordinated to match the headgear.

Stiles could not comply. For one thing, their demands were utterly unreasonable. For another, Derek fled on the sight of him. Or...at least, they conveniently kept missing each other lately. The guy hadn't dropped by since the fateful Internet misunderstanding. Pack meetings started early and ended before Stiles could show up. He'd arrive to shrugged shoulders and mumbled excuses, and _really, guys_ , none of them were fooling him.

Honestly, it was enough to give him a heady start on developing a complex. Maybe he'd misinterpreted Derek. The Alpha had probably just been all sorts of mortified. Finding out that Internet strangers assumed the dude was dating some sort of lame teenager could do that to a person. What the hell was he supposed to do? Apologize? _It'd been an accident._

Stiles rallied. He was good at that.

It wasn't like Derek Hale was the only insanely attractive friend he had. Former friend? Individual he'd sort of hung out with on a semi-regular basis? Whatever they'd been and clearly no longer were.

The obvious replacement was Scott.

Scott who was totally straight. Definitely. Or was mostly just Allison-sexual. That might be a thing. And he could dependably be coaxed into participating in Stiles's schemes with minimal effort. Plus, he looked positively charming in a lopsided beret as he inquired for the umpteenth time if Stiles could please finish up so they could go downstairs and play some video games, pleeeease.

God, Stiles missed having a model who could pipe down long enough for him to take a photo. And sat still. And who had mastered the laser eyes problem.

His customers went batshit. And not in a good way. They thought Scott was a nice boy. Look at the darling smile! And his crooked jaw. So sweet. Adorableness incarnate. BUT NOT A SAD ETSY BOYFRIEND BY A LONG SHOT. And certainly not the grumpy, scruffy lad who'd won their hearts. Luckily, he'd had the forethought to mention in the description how Scott was his best friend. Stiles thought that lessened the sense of betrayal that flooded the messages he'd received.

\----

"Maybe it was the beret," Scott suggested, a little downtrodden that no one had purchased it yet. The hat occupied the lamp of shame. Whenever Stiles was in his room, he was forced to look upon it and be filled with disgrace. (Once in a while, he feared it might catch fire and seek vengeance by destroying all of his worldly possessions. That had yet to happen.) Having Scott remark on this degradation crossed a line though.

" _How dare you?_ "

"But...it's purple and orange, Stiles. Other than that, it's great. Berets are supposed to tip over on a person's head." That was a veiled compliment if Stiles had ever heard one. So maybe the hat was a tad asymmetrical. It did its duty!

Stiles sent the beret a withering look. Likewise, it was far from the hardest thing he'd ever made.

The fingerless gloves had been the hugest pain in the ass. You'd think they'd be easier than regular gloves but no. Not really. The holes for the fingers had kept coming out too small or big and every other size than perfect. Then, he had to start all over again. Stiles had roped Derek into being his hand model, and in the end, resorted to doing the final stitches while Derek was wearing them. It'd worked. And he'd sworn off ever making another pair again. Once was enough for him. He came. He knitted. He triumphed.

Also, he was so not going to wax poetic about past accomplishments. Especially ones involving Derek. In fact, he wasn't even going to think about the guy.

He found that he went through the list of viable candidates faster than expected.

Isaac flat-out refused at first. But then Scott and Stiles double-teamed him and through the wonderful magic that was peer pressure, coaxed him into a monstrosity that was supposed to be a hat shaped like a shark head according to the pattern Stiles had used, but it'd come out more like a blue blob with teeth. With his hair all smushed inside, Isaac had been the pinnacle of pathetic. The unhappiest camper to ever camp. Which, of course, made Scott feel bad.

Stiles glanced away for all three of seconds, and the duo had made a break for it. Scott shouting a fleeting apology as he rescued his fellow Beta.

Boyd expected monetary compensation should he consent to modeling. According to his logic, if Stiles was making a profit, then he should receive his fair share for his services. Stiles's explanation about how the pack was a financial drain on his livelihood between repairing his Jeep and various expenses proved futile.

Jackson wasn't even worth asking. That guy had more than enough material to mock Stiles without him voluntarily sharing his craftier hobbies.

And he couldn't beg Danny to do it because Danny would totally check out his Etsy store, and wow, there'd be a whole lot of Cousin Miguel.

Stiles was stumped. His glory days of penis brooches were far behind him.

\----

The local yarn store was as small as fuck and owned by a woman who might have been present during the founding of the town. She certainly hadn't updated her wardrobe since then. Stiles privately called her Vampire Granny. Their mistrust was mutual. Evidently, her usual clientele did not include teenagers of the male persuasion. What did she think he was going to do? Stock up on knitting needles to begin his career as a self-taught ninja?

Stiles had been privy to dirty looks his first couple of trips. They'd paled in comparison to the glaring he'd put up with from the resident Alpha. Like hell he was going to let a little, old woman intimidate him off the premises. Even if said lady crocheted like a boss, needles a silver blur above clawed hands. Somewhere between the fourth and sixth visit, they had reached a grudging truce. Cold, hard cash was a worker of miracles.

In all honesty, Stiles really had yet to master the complex lingo of yarn. He could if he wanted to. But he rather preferred the method of simply wandering around and selecting his purchases based on a complex equation of his own devising.

Softness on a scale of a kitten's belly to holy shit, I think this sweater is a torture device x color.

It wasn't what one would call a scientific process. Perhaps there was a reason his masterpieces never came out quite like the sample images.

He swung around a corner, trailing a hand through the wares as he went, and abruptly came to a stop as he slammed into a newly built wall.

No. Wait. Not a wall. Just someone who saw fit to stand in the middle of the aisle while perusing his options. In a leather jacket. Many people wore leather jackets. They were making a comeback! Or possibly, they'd never really gone away. Stiles rubbed ruefully at his nose as the loiterer turned around. And yes, of course, it was Derek Hale. Because life took a certain vicious pleasure out of tossing Derek in Stiles's path at every opportunity.

He should say something. Like an apology. That would be a good start. Definitely not anything along the lines of pleading him to resume modeling because he couldn't sell a damn thing nowadays, and nope, Stiles had dignity. Starting up a casual, polite conversation was totally within his abilities.

"You knit now?" Stiles couldn't contain his incredulity. This encounter was steadfastly dismantling his understanding of reality.

"What? No."

To put it bluntly, Derek was the definition of a kid who'd gotten caught with his hand crammed in the cookie jar. There were crumbs (of the metaphorical nature) smeared all over that chiseled face.

"Dude. Your arms are full of yarn." And so they were. The fact that they were black did not mean that they blended in with Derek's jacket. Camouflage only extended so far. Derek looked down as if just as shocked to discover he was loaded with knitting supplies.

For a second, Stiles seriously thought Derek might chuck the balls in his face and make a run for it.

"I thought...that I might try taking it up."

Stiles arched both eyebrows. He had been practicing in the bathroom mirror after showers. Nothing he did ever came close to the expressive dramatic quality of Derek's.

Derek looked a cross between panicky and insecure, ducking his head while his brow furrowed. "Never mind. I should go."

"No, no, that's cool! I, for one, totally support your new hobby. A hundred percent." Stiles shrugged both shoulders, opportunely positioning himself so as to completely block the aisle. This one led into a dead-end. There was no way for Derek to escape...unless the guy wanted to scale the shelves or shove him over. "I mean, I knit. As you know."

A cornered werewolf was no match for Stiles.

Thus began the great Stilinski-Hale Knitting Sessions. Derek refused to call them lessons. And Stiles was fine with that because they weren't. Not really. The few times he tried to give pointers, the werewolf had sniped at him and found an excuse to leave.

This didn't count as training. There were no Betas to berate or threats lurking around every shadowy corner. For once, Derek could be as laidback as the dude ever got. The pastime wasn't exactly that useful considering how it would have been a hell of a lot cheaper to simply go out and buy a scarf.

Derek would sit quietly on the bed, face screwed up in concentration as he worked on what was shaping up to be a scarf while Stiles rattled on about whatever. And he made things too, mostly so Derek could quit acting so self-conscious.

To be honest, Stiles was just glad to have Derek over again. Hiding the fact that he had a crafting Alpha in his bedroom from his dad was no trickier than usual. Derek had sworn him to secrecy when it came to the pack though. And really, that was moronic. One's ability to knit was totally uncorrelated to one's ability to lead.

\----

Sometimes Sties mulled deep thoughts about the sort of fictional sex life the Internet imagined he must have had with Derek before the guy stopped letting him use him as mannequin. They wouldn't have much to go by. On a superficial level, they knew that Derek was hot. (Or as one astute buyer had dubbed him in her feedback, a Hottie McHot Hot Hot.) That either he never smiled for the camera or simply rarely smiled period. (Maybe they assumed he could get Derek to crack up. Hilarity.)

Was Derek the taciturn boyfriend, gritting his teeth for the snapshot solely for the second afterward, when he was so impatient that he would fling himself at Stiles, all teeth and lips and a floppy, knitted mittens? Or maybe he was just camera shy? God, between the pins and needles that congregated on top of his bed, they probably had better luck elsewhere. Like up against the desk. Creativity could be quite an asset in coming up with innovative positions.

And, logically, the Etsy community was presumably blissfully unaware of the existence of werewolves. Maybe. Probably. They were a surprisingly perceptive bunch. A couple of them did sell wolf's bane incense.

So, all of those highly inappropriate thoughts would come to a jarring halt once he realized what he was pondering. Usually this realization struck right about the time he noticed that Derek was glowering at him, and whoops, talk about a lag in the conversation. God, the Internet had _ruined_ him.

\----

Stiles didn't find out about the gloves until three and a half weeks later.

A cold front had hit Beacon Hills. It rained right before because it _always_ rained here. Afterward, the temperature slipped down by degrees until the whole town was coated in a fine layer of frost. Black ice lurked on the roads. Straggling leaves found themselves frozen to their branches. They sparkled enchantingly under the sunlight.

And, obviously, because this was Beacon Hills, and normality had ceased to exist in this small piece of California, _something else_ came with the cold.

A fucking yeti.

Stiles would have laughed if he hadn't been too busy running for his life, sliding on patches of slick grass and dodging low hanging icicles sharp enough to poke out an eye. Or two. He genuinely could not spare either. His level of hand-eye coordination already left something to be desired.

The freezing air pricked at his lungs, a contrast to the fire that was the lining of his throat. Stiles stumbled, caught himself against a trunk, and kept on sprinting. His latest scarf trailed behind him, flapping wildly as if to cheer him on.

Earlier the plan had sounded so simple. Something lifted straight out of an episode of Scooby Doo, honestly. Let the Betas split up and spread out throughout the woods. Lead the monster to the trap. End of story. He was supposed to chill in the parking lot, sulking about his allotment in life that left him ill-equipped for high-speed chases on foot while his friends risked their lives once again.

Really, knowing his predilection for giant creatures armed with claws and teeth and _lousy_ tempers, he should have seen the yeti barreling onto the asphalt a mile away. To lock himself in his Jeep would have been a death sentence. This thing was eight feet tall and snarling. It had ripped a fire truck to shreds on Thursday.

So Stiles ran.

There were howls echoing in the wind and the gnash of teeth right behind him, and he was _so close_ that he could make out the boundary of the snare. Ten more yards.

Nine.

Eight.

A vice around his neck jerked him backwards, feet flying out from beneath him as he gagged. Stiles landed heavily on his back, gasping sharply at the impact, fingers clawing at the too tight scarf. Looming above him was a mobile mountain of dirty, white fur (and oh, gross, there were swathes that happened to be a distinct yellow) and gripped in one massive paw was the end of his scarf.

Stiles pried at the knot, loosening it as best he could. His first thought was entirely useless. Per the norm, he couldn't resist sharing it, his voice hoarse as he spoke. "Uh. Hey. Your feet are surprisingly average-sized."

The yeti crouched and roared. Spittle flecked his face. This latest indignity was nothing compared to the creature's breath. Stiles choked a little on the noxious fumes.

A few more whiffs of that, and the yeti might not have to lift a claw to kill him.

Something snarled and collided into the yeti from the right. Where Stiles had been no match (at least unarmed) for the "mythological" beast, a full-grown Alpha apparently had little trouble clobbering the thing senseless. There went the humane trap idea. Stiles lifted himself up onto his forearms to watch, cringing periodically. That had to have hurt.

When Derek finished, he pivoted around and stalked back to the prone teen. His features shifted as he extended a hand.

Stiles hesitated before accepting the hand and tugging himself up onto legs left jittery from adrenaline. There was the familiar softness of wool against his palm. _Wait a second._ He glanced down at Derek's hand still trapped within the grip of his fingers.

"You're wearing _my_ fingerless gloves."

Derek stiffened, jerked his hand free, and ceremoniously stuffed both fists into the pockets of his jacket. Like maybe if Stiles couldn't _see_ the bright red gloves, he might forget their existence. When Stiles continued staring at him, Derek muttered, "They're mine."

"But you _bought_ them. From _my_ store," he explained good-naturedly. It was challenging not to take delight in Derek's awkwardness, especially when still high off of the part where he had not died today. The poor guy looked out of his element despite their wooded surroundings and the lump of unconscious beast sprawled out by their feet. Stiles hadn't given much thought to someone purchasing the gloves. It had been one more sale to a customer he'd never meet. D'oh. Fingerless gloves were probably the only sort of gloves a werewolf could wear without fear of ripping. " _The eff_ , Derek, if you wanted them you could have asked."

"It wrecked your scarf," Derek commented as he picked up the shredded, stretched section that the yeti had rudely used as his personal Stilinski leash. Least subtle effort of changing the topic ever. Stiles let him have it.

"Yeah, well, we can't all be Isaac." There were people capable of working accessories in action-packed scenarios. Stiles was not gifted with this talent. "Afraid this one's going to be a lost cause." The entire thing threatened to unravel. In the scheme of things, his scarf ending up the solo casualty was worth it. "I can make a new one."

"No. You can have mine."

Stiles greeted the generous albeit vague offer with a bemused expression.

\----

Fair was fair. Stiles rolled his eyes as Derek wrapped the scarf around his neck for the fifth time. Longer wasn't necessarily better. Derek had overestimated how many balls he'd need and consequently felt obligated to keep knitting until he'd run out. This scarf was a deathtrap waiting to happen. (More so than his own had been.)

"I think this might work better if I was a giraffe," Stiles noted unhelpfully. Derek looped it once more so that it covered Stiles's mouth. It made for a very faulty muzzle. "Dude, treat your model with respect."

"Stop moving," Derek grumbled as he rearranged the folds of the scarf. There was too much material and not enough Stiles. Worse yet, now that Derek had finished knitting, he kept noticing all of the things he had done wrong. (Stiles recognized too well the signals of an unsatisfied crafter, easily interpreting Derek's growing frustration.) Bits of yarn fuzzed here and there, and the whole thing was littered with messy knots from where he had screwed up. It was a catastrophe. "This is such a dumb idea."

"Sacrilege. It is ingenious. The circle of life but with less turning into grass and inevitable betrayal." Stiles tried to shake the mental image of Peter as Scar. He could tell that Derek was preparing to call it quits. The werewolf's shoulders had a hunched quality to them, and he had given up fiddling with the scarf.

If he didn't act quickly, he'd lose him. Again.

Derek emitted an indignant huff as Stiles unwound the scarf, ruining all of his work. "What do you think yo-" he cut off abruptly and watched with wide eyes as Stiles started looping the freed end of the scarf around his neck.

"Practicing tying you to railroad tracks. Chill. It's gonna look better this way," he said reassuringly. Prepping Derek for a photo was like second nature to him despite how it had been a while. The fact that Derek was naturally photogenic helped a great deal. (What person wouldn't want to oogle a face like that? _God_.) But Stiles pretended that his eye for detail helped a little.

Stiles stepped closer and frowned down at the slack that sagged between them. "All right, you have to turn around now." Derek stared at Stiles's twirling finger. "Spin? Loop de loop? No comprende?" Stiles held his arms to his sides (ladies and gentlemen of the audience, he could be taught) and revolved in a slow circle. When he was finished, the scarf was neatly wrapped around both their necks. Of course, he promptly went to grab the waiting camera and produced a gagging noise when Derek simply stayed in place.

"This is why two people shouldn't share scarves, Stiles," Derek pointed out, ever the crusher of dreams and harebrained solutions.

By now, Stiles was fairly adept at tuning such criticism out. A lifetime of practice served him well. He gripped camera strap between his teeth, letting the camera dangle against his chin while he fixed up the scarf so that it was no longer choking him. Derek stared at him, either bewildered by his antics or captivated by his chompers.

"All right. Ready?" He turned on the camera, switched off the flash, and stretched out his arm as far as it would go. Not one who excelled in the art of selfies, Stiles guesstimated the best angle and hoped for the best.

Derek grunted inarticulately. When Stiles slipped an arm around his shoulders, the werewolf stiffened for a second but stayed put.

"Now, growl for the camera," Stiles ordered before plastering on his angriest face, which included baring his teeth and scrunching up his nose. His gaze flitted to Derek's, and sure enough, Derek had on that trademarkable scowl. Perfect.

Stiles put up the listing that night. A quasi-thank-you for his customers.

The scarf wasn't really for sale. It was a gift, after all. He set the price for _one million dollars_ (insert maniacal laugh here) and shut down once it was live. Let the Internet make of it what it like.

He had a date with an Alpha. Not an _actual_ date. (Not yet, anyway.) They were just headed to the yarn store. Derek supposedly had a new project in mind, and Stiles was happy to act as the resident advisor. And if anything should happen along the way, well, he wouldn't be one to complain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that only took me about forever and a day. 
> 
> P.S. You can find me on [Tumblr](http://paperclipmagnets.tumblr.com/).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Derek/Stiles Podfic Anthology ITPE2014 for Crazybutsound.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2773256) by [Podcath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Podcath/pseuds/Podcath)




End file.
